


To Betray The People

by hybridempress



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: French Revolution, Gen, Guillotine, Historical Hetalia, Reign of Terror, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hybridempress/pseuds/hybridempress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis had fought hard to keep himself moderate in the midst of the Jacobin uprising and the beginning of the Terror that was plaguing his country, but the execution of Marie-Antoinette pushes him to insanity. In the aftermath of the Terror, can Francis ever be forgiven for sending thousands of his people to their deaths?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Betray The People

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MageArc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MageArc/gifts).



> A bit of background before you read this: I have headcanons that during a civil war or revolution, nations will often split into two different personification, and each personification represents one side of the revolution. Neither personification is actually the "true" personification, they are their own individual beings, and at the end of a revolution the two personifications merge back into one being. This can result in the birth of an entirely new personification, or recreating the familiar personification with heavily altered ideals, attitudes, etc. 
> 
> That being said, Francis managed to merge back into one personification after the first phase of the Revolution and was struggling to keep himself together through the Terror, but things do not exactly go to plan.
> 
> Fic #4 of tumblr's aph france week, based off of an au that my friend Mage and I discussed about a year ago. Happy Bastille Day everyone!

“Get… Out…”

Francis gripped the edges of the vanity with both hands so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Soft tremors spread through his body as he tried to keep himself standing upright. He kept his eyes shut tight and his head lowered. His long blond locks hung in front of his face, swinging in rhythm with the shaking of his body. 

_Oh, but don’t you see, my darling? I’m **trying** to get out. You’re the one who is suppressing me._

Francis shook his head vigorously. “ _No._ No. Get out of my head… Get out… The Revolution is over… We don’t need you here!”

_Oh, Francis, quit lying to yourself. The Revolution is **far** from over. How long are you going to try to keep me in before you realize that everything you are doing to stop this Terror is in vain?_

“The people know better. They don’t want this, they don’t want _you…_ ”

_Tsk, tsk, Francis. You’ll never learn. But you’ll pay the price soon enough. People will soon realize how **counter-revolutionary** you really are… They’ll see how you still represent the **ancien régime** and they’ll cut you down, just like they’ve cut down everyone else._

Francis’ eyes snapped open and he stared at himself in the mirror. He shook his head again, slower this time. “No…” he whispered, his voice shaking. “No, I’m _not_ a counter-revolutionary, the _régime_ is dead! I am New France and I don’t need your help! I’m not setting you free again!”

_Funny, because I thought I was the one who had been trying to help our people all this time. You were on the King’s side, always. You didn’t care about our suffering people. You didn’t care about their problems. All you cared about was that you were getting everything you wanted, just like the rest of the aristocracy._

“Shut up! That’s not true! I’ve _always_ cared about _my_ people!”

_Then why am **I** the one who is trying to help them now? Why am **I** accusing **you** of being counter-revolutionary? Why am I worried about counter-revolutionaries in the first place? I’m the one who was helping them, Francis. You only **think** you’re helping them now, because we’re merged again, and our memories are the same._

Francis let go of the vanity and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pulling on it. His breathing became faster, and shallow. “Stop it, stop it! You’re lying to me, I know it! I’m not letting you go!” 

_You can tell yourself that all you want, Francis, but our future hasn’t begun yet. I **will** have my say before the Terror ends._

The voice said nothing more after that. Though his head felt lighter, paranoia and anxiety still plagued Francis, but that was nothing new. He would never feel safe as long as that _beast_ was trying to separate itself from him again. 

He backed away from the vanity and sat down on his bed. He buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath to try and steady his breathing, and his shaking body. Instead, he just ended up crying, and silently praying to God that all of this would be over soon. He’d lost track of how many times that prayer had gone unanswered.

Francis did not receive even a moment’s peace before he was beset with fear and hopelessness again. The voice was no longer haunting Francis’ head at the moment, but someone else came to deliver terrible, terrible news to him. The door to his room opened without a knock, and Francis looked up to see a young man standing in the doorframe. The man was white as a sheet, and panting heavily.

_”Monsieur France! Monsieur France!”_

Francis stood up and faced the man, straightening his clothes out as he did so. “What is it, boy? Out with it already,” he urged. 

“It’s _Madame_ Marie-Antoinette. The trial is out. She’s been sentenced to death.” 

Francis’ stomach dropped. He gasped, and covered his mouth with his hand. He had been praying that his beloved former-queen would have been spared from the tyranny of the Terror, but he knew that it was a long shot from the beginning. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the devastation that would accompany her sentence. 

“Where is this happening?” Francis asked hurriedly. “Take me there, quickly. Please.” 

The man did as he was told. There was a carriage already waiting for the two of them outside Francis’ home. It was only once they were inside the carriage that Francis was informed of where they were headed. 

Of course, Francis should have known that his beloved queen’s life would end in the same place that the Terror had started. _Place de la Révolution,_ where her husband had been executed ten months earlier. Her death would be just as symbolic as the erection of the guillotine in the square had been. 

A crowd had already gathered around the guillotine before Francis had arrived. Marie-Antoinette was not present yet, but it would not be long before she was brought to the blade. Francis hardly waited for the carriage to stop before he got out of it and began to push himself through the crowd.

Amid the angry shouts and rude words that were being yelled at him, Francis managed to get through to the front of the crowd, where he had a perfect view of the guillotine. The wait for Marie-Antoinette’s arrival was agonizing, and Francis became more and more anxious with every second that passed. 

Finally, Francis could hear the crowd start to become riled in a mixture of hostility and satisfaction. Francis turned his head to see where the cries of insults and swears had started. His breath caught in his throat when he finally saw his queen, dressed in white and riding in an open cart with her hands bound and a rope leash around her neck. If she was frightened she did not show it. She remained as calm and proud as ever, even in such a defiled state. Francis could hardly stand to look at her. 

She did not resist as she was helped down from her cart and led up the steps to the guillotine. She stepped on the executioner’s foot, most likely on accident, as she was pushed in front of the guillotine. Francis saw her whisper something to the executioner before she was restrained underneath the blade. 

Francis could not bear to watch the execution, and yet, his body was cruel to him. He could not take his eyes off of her face. Francis heard the whistle of the blade as it was released, plummeting into the neck of its latest victim. The sickening _quelch_ of flesh and blood being torn apart would have been enough to make Francis vomit if his entire frame had not become so rigidly still and unresponsive. The crowd cheered as her blood poured over the platform. The queen’s death was a symbol of triumph for the radical revolutionaries of France, but for the Personification himself, it was the last straw. 

Marie-Antoinette was the very last symbol of the _ancien régime._ With her death came the destruction of every wall that Francis had put in place to keep himself moderate; to keep himself _sane._ In this moment of absolute weakness and despondency, Francis could no longer save himself. There was nothing to keep _the beast_ from taking over. 

The shift was silent. There was no big show. Now agonizing screaming. No resistance from Francis. The voice inside of Francis’ head was no longer just a voice, but the spirit that controlled his entire being. 

He smirked faintly, tilting his head from side to side, subtly. He opened and closed his fists, trying to get used to the feeling of being in control of this body. He heaved a heavy breath and turned around to push his way out of the crowd, standing tall and proud as he walked.

“If it’s a Terror the people want, it’s a Terror the people will get.”

\---

With his “soft” side incapacitated, Francis was free to work right alongside Robespierre and his colleagues. They painted themselves as heroes to the public, promising that stability and the future of the country relied on the idea that everyone who voiced even the slightest dissent against the new government needed to be silenced. They promised to bring justice to all who were loyal to their cause, but justice was the farthest thing from what they produced. 

For seven more gruesome months, Francis personally ordered for the deaths of more than four thousand people. Combined with the deaths ordered by Robespierre and his other partners, the death toll could only be described as countless. It didn't matter if there was any evidence against a person or not; if you were accused of being counter-revolutionary, you would be executed.

As the Terror continued and became bloodier and bloodier, hysteria pushed the people to their limits. People were doing everything they could to protect themselves and their families from the guillotine, even if that meant sending all of their neighbors to it. At this rate it seemed that the whole country would be dead before long.

The worst part of it all was that Francis was a part of the problem. People who sought help from the Personification of their nation were turned away or sent to their deaths. For the first time since the Terror had begun, the people were starting to realize that this was not the country that they had fought for. This was not the future that they had wanted.

The people had decided that enough was enough. They were tired of living in fear and they were tired of the blood on their streets and they were tired of having to run away from the one person who was always supposed to be on their side. For the first time since the Terror had begun, the people were united, and they were ready to take back their lives.

On July 28th, 1794, Robespierre and his colleagues, including Francis, were arrested and executed without trial. They were brought to the _Place de la Révolution_ and guillotined one by one. Robespierre was first, and _Monsieur France_ was the last.

He didn’t give up without a fight. Even as he was being restrained under the blade he fought against his captors, shouting and cursing and spitting and writhing. The crowd around the guillotine became nothing short of a riot. They swore at their Personification and spat in his face as his neck was secured under the blade. They called for justice, demanding for the swift death of the one person they never thought would betray them. There was nothing he could do to escape what was coming to him.

The guillotine was supposed to be the most humane way to execute someone. It was supposed to be quick and painless, but the half a second it was supposed to take to sever his head from his body felt like an eternity. An excruciating, hellish, unbearable eternity. 

Francis would never forget the way his people cheered when the blade was finally dropped on him. He would never forget how the fear and the anger finally vanished from everyone’s faces in the moment right before his death. His death gave freedom to his people again. With his death, the people brought the Terror to its end. 

\---

Death was not a new experience to Francis, but he would never be able to get used to the emptiness that came with it. He would never be able to be unafraid in the face of the uncertainty that resided within his spirit, trapped between worlds, not able to return to his body or even the Earth, nor able to enter whatever awaited him in the afterlife. He would never be able to stand the silence.

And yet, when Francis awoke it was in his own bed, and he felt as if everything that had happened had all been a bad dream. In fact, Francis was not quite sure in that moment if his execution had been real or not. His memories of everything that had happened since Marie-Antoinette’s death were vague and blurry, as though they were not even his own. He was almost convinced that he had blacked out after his queen’s death and had dreamed about everything else. 

Out of instinct he wrapped his fingers lightly around his own neck to feel if any damage had been done. His breath caught in his throat when he felt a thick scar running all the way around his neck. He suddenly found it almost impossible to breathe, and he knew that he would not be able to speak if he tried.

Francis had been executed. That much was clear. But everything else was still a haze. 

The Terror… He couldn’t remember specifics. He couldn’t remember what his part in it was. Maybe the voice had been right. Maybe his people had believed him to be counter-revolutionary and they tried to kill him. 

But what was happening now? Were people still being killed? Had Robespierre gotten anything under control? How long had he been incapacitated? What was the state of his nation? The state of his people?

“Oh, _Monsieur France,_ you’re awake! You’re awake!”

Francis tried to sit up, or at least lean up a little to see who was talking to. However, he found that he couldn’t really move at the time. Everything felt heavy and he still didn’t feel in control of his own body just yet.

Fortunately, the man who was speaking decided to come to him. Francis only had to look up to see that it was the same young man who had come to tell him about Marie-Antoinette’s sentence. He looked utterly relieved and terrified at the same time. 

“ _Monsieur France,_ do you need anything? Can I do anything for you? Are you feeling alright?”

Francis opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find his voice again. It was several minutes before he was finally able to speak, and his voice only came out in a shallow rasp. He could only seem speak one word every couple of seconds, thus making his sentences long, drawn out, and hard to understand. 

“H-how… Long… Was I-I… Dead…?”

“O-oh, a couple months, sir. You’ve been dead since July. It’s November now.”

“What… Year…?”

“It’s 1794, sir.”

“Please… Tell me… How…”

“How what, sir?”

“H-how did I… Die…? Why…?” 

The man’s face paled for a moment, and he began to look more frightened. “O-oh, well sir, you see… Euh, a-after Marie-Antoinette was killed, you decided to work alongside Robespierre and you started ordering executions… E-everyone was so terrified and angry that eventually they decided together just to arrest you and Robespierre and subject you to the same fate that you had been giving everyone else…” 

Francis felt his throat close up on him again. As the man explained the circumstances of Francis’ death to him, his fuzzy memories started to become more and more vivid. Suddenly the muffled shouts and screams of his people became clear as the church bells that Francis used to hear every Sunday morning. He saw clear as day the terrified faces of his people as he ordered them to their deaths. He remembered the blood on his hands, and everything that he’d done, and finally how he had died, and suddenly he wished that he was still dormant. 

“S-sir…? A-are you-”

“Leave me.”

The man tilted his head a little, looking confused. “S-sir?”

_”Leave me,”_ Francis repeated, trying to sound as deliberate as possible. It was hard with a shaking, quiet, raspy voice. 

However, the man seemed sufficiently submissive. “Yes, sir,” he said, bowing his head and quickly leaving the room.

\---

By nightfall, Francis seemed to have recovered most of his strength, no thanks to the maids and other servants who came to check on him. He sent everyone away as soon as they even stepped foot in his room. He couldn’t bear to look at their anxious faces. He couldn’t bear to see the fear in their eyes. 

Francis was a monster. That was how his people saw him. That was how he saw himself. What kind of creature could justify themselves in the murder of thousands of innocent people other than a demon? Francis would never be able to forgive himself for the crimes that he committed against his people, whom he had always loved so dearly. He would never be able to repay God for his sins. He would never be able to face his people after what he had done. 

Every part of Francis wished without question that he had stayed dead after he had been executed. Every part of him wanted to slit his own throat, or shoot himself, or something, but he knew that he would awake again in a few days or weeks and he would still have to carry the weight of his sins. Every part of him wished desperately that there was some way for him to die, for real, but there was nothing. Never had the price of being immortal felt so high to Francis until now. 

Without any other ideas, the only way that Francis could think of to solve his problem was to run. He needed to run, far away from this house and this city, though there was no way he could leave the country without being found by another personification. He just needed to run as far as he could to a place where no one would ever be able to find him; to a place where he could be completely and utterly alone for the rest of eternity. 

He didn’t take anything with him. While the staff was sleeping he slipped out of his home, quiet as a mouse, and disappeared into the night. He ran, as fast as his legs could take him and as far as they would carry him. While at first he believed he had no idea where he was going, he found himself arriving somewhere that was all too familiar to him.

It was almost a second home, that little cottage in the woods so far away from any kind of civilization that you could live here your whole life and never see another human being; though Francis could never really have the privilege of calling himself something so precious and fragile as a human being. It had been Francis’ safe haven many times in the past, for as long as he could remember. He didn’t know why it was here, or who had built it. All he knew was that it gave him peace and sanctuary when he needed it. 

The problem was that Francis did not feel like he deserved sanctuary in the slightest right now. Even standing outside this place made him feel sick. Stepping foot inside of it would surely burn him as though he were a demon trying to enter a church, but he had nowhere else to go. He had no other choice. 

He held his breath as he pushed the door open and stepped into the house. He justified his entrance by telling himself this was the only place he would be able to think. If this was a sanctuary then he could at least try to repent for what he had done, and come up with some sort of solution if he couldn’t bring death to himself. 

He collapsed to his knees beside the cot in the corner of the single room that made up the cottage. He propped his elbows up on the mattress and folded his hands together so that he could pray. He prayed, for hours he prayed, and he cried, and he pulled at his hair and stood up and punched walls and cried out in anguish and despair. 

He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t sleep the next night, or the night after that. Every time he closed his eyes he could see everything he had done as if it were happening right then and there. He could feel the blood on his hands and taste it in his mouth. The screams of the people he had killed haunted him. He could see their faces as if they were standing right in front of him, even when his eyes were open.

He didn’t eat. Being immortal meant that you couldn’t die from starvation, but having a human body meant that he became too weak to move and puked bile every now and then. He couldn’t have eaten anything even if he wanted to, though. He wasn’t strong enough to go hunting and he was sure there was nothing living around here for miles, anyways. 

It was a year before anyone found him. None of the other Personifications had seen or heard from him in an unreasonably long time, especially for a nation who was unstable and still fighting with other countries. On a cold day in the middle of November, 1795, Arthur Kirkland trudged into the cottage, shivering and covered in snow. 

The cottage was the first place he had looked. He had known Francis for long enough to know where his safe haven was. He had been to the cottage before under vastly different circumstances, before there was so much bad blood between them. 

He found Francis passed out on the cot, wasting away in his own filth. He was so pale and sickly looking, and skinny enough that his clothes were baggy on him and every feature on his face was so much sharper because of how his bones were defined through his skin. Arthur had never seen Francis in such a terrible state, and it was harrowing to look at. 

Arthur was a strong man, to be sure, but it was unnervingly easy to pick Francis up off of the cot and carry him outside to the carriage that he had used to travel here in the first place. Arthur was afraid that he would crush Francis’ bones into dust if he put too much pressure on them. Arthur felt as though he might vomit. Francis smelled like death and looked like it too, but there was no way that Arthur could let Francis stay here any longer. 

He rode back to the city, where he knew Francis’ house was, and brought him inside as quickly as possible. Of course, when the servants heard the door to their home being opened, and someone walking around inside, they immediately rushed to see who it was. A collective gasp of shock and worry came from the servants who saw Arthur carrying their master through the house. Arthur paid no attention to them, and instead pushed past many of them to take Francis to the washroom.

“Someone go draw some water. He needs a bath,” Arthur snapped as he walked.

“Yes, sir,” said the servants in unison, and all of them scuttled away immediately after.

Arthur stripped Francis of his clothes and waited impatiently for someone to bring water for the bath. It seemed like he had waited hours before two servants finally came back into the room with buckets of water to fill the bath with. They nodded to Arthur before quickly walking to the tub and dumping the water into it. One of them turned to Arthur and began speaking nervously to him.

“W-would you like me to heat the water, sir?” she asked. 

Arthur waved his hand dismissively and quickly picked Francis up to place him in the bath. “There’s no time for that now. He won’t feel the water, anyways. He’s too weak to wake up,” he said.

The girl nodded. “A-alright, sir. I-is there anything else we can do?” she asked.

Arthur put Francis down in the tub and began to clean his hair and his body. “Yes, make him something to eat. Something that he won’t have to chew, just swallow. Make it fast and make a lot of it,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Both of the servants bowed to Arthur before leaving him and Francis alone in the washroom. 

After he had finished washing Francis, Arthur had a servant bring him a cloth to dry Francis off with. Once Francis was dry Arthur picked him up and carried him to his bedroom. Arthur didn’t bother to dress Francis again, and instead settled for wrapping him up in the sheets on the bed. The sheets were the only thing that would fit him right now, anyways. 

It was a few hours before Francis woke up again, and it was only so that he could be sick. Arthur had anticipated this, and had asked for a bowl to be brought up to the bedroom so that Francis wouldn’t be puking all over his sheets. Fortunately, after helping Francis vomit into the bowl, Arthur managed to keep Francis awake long enough to feed him something. 

This cycle continued for hours, well into the night, and Arthur did not receive any sleep that night. He refused to leave Francis’ side, especially not until he had gotten Francis to keep some of the food down. It seemed so hopeless that Arthur contemplated slitting Francis’ throat to kill him just so that his body would regenerate and become healthy again, but Arthur didn’t have the heart to do that to Francis. Not right now.

Eventually, though, Francis got to a point where he could hold his food down. He was able to stay awake for longer periods of time, and he slowly became less and less delusional. By the next evening Francis was finally able to recognize that he was back in his home, and that Arthur was taking care of him, but he couldn’t figure out for the life of him how or why that had happened. 

“What’s going on, Arthur…? Why are you here…? Why am I back in my home…?” 

“Because, you arse,” Arthur began, trying to convey how frustrated he was without revealing how terrified and worried he was, “you can’t just disappear without a trace for a year and expect people not to worry about you.”

Francis scoffed, though it came out almost as more of a coughing choke. “Since when have you ever worried about me? You hate me,” he said, and shifted his gaze to the floor. “Why would anyone worry about me? I’m a monster. It is a miracle that God hasn’t stricken me dead where I stand yet.”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed. “What are you talking about? We’ve been friends for years. Of course I don’t hate you. And don’t talk that way about yourself. What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

Francis looked back at Arthur again. “You don’t even know what happened, do you?” he asked.

“No, I don’t. No one knows anything, Francis. No one has heard from you in a year,” Arthur spat.

Francis looked away again. “It was better that way. It would have been better if no one had ever found me,” he said.

“Hey! Come off it!” Arthur said, swatting the top of Francis’ head. “What’s going on, Francis? You’ve scared the shit out of everyone for far too long. I deserve an explanation. We all do.”

Francis began to cry silently. Tears streamed down his face and onto the sheets that he was wrapped up in. He couldn’t speak for a long time. Arthur took Francis’ hand in his own to try and give Francis some kind of reassurance. 

“I-I had them killed, Arthur. So many of them. I ordered them to their deaths. They were innocent people, _my_ people, and I murdered them,” Francis whispered.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. He had heard about the Terror in Francis’ country, but the thought that Francis had been an instigator in it had not crossed his mind for even a second. He always thought that Francis would fight with his people no matter what.

“What…?” 

Francis choked back a sob, and coughed hard. “I could feel him trying to take over, always- The other part of me, the part of me that wanted to side with the government instead of the people. I didn’t want to split again, Arthur. I didn’t want to be two people, I didn’t want my people to suffer anymore, so I suppressed him but when my queen was executed I couldn’t hold him back anymore and he took control of me completely. I didn’t even realize, it was like my soul was sleeping while he was in control of my body and I couldn’t wake up until after I had been executed,” he said. 

Arthur relaxed a little. That story was much easier to believe, and much easier to swallow. Still, that didn’t make it any less horrific. 

“Then it wasn’t really you, Francis,” Arthur said assertively, his expression hardening. “There’s no way you would have done something like that consciously. It was that terrible part of you that was trying to split from you. It wasn’t your fault.”

Francis balled his hands into fists, gripping his sheets tightly. “What kind of logic is that, Arthur? It’s utter poppycock. Of course it was my fault. Of course it was really me. Just because he was the part of me that wanted to side with the government doesn’t mean that he wasn’t _me,_ ” he hissed.

Arthur swallowed thickly. “Even if that were true, what does it do to abandon your people and your country in such an unstable state? What did you think that would solve? Those people are long dead now, Francis, and your tears will not do them justice. It’s time to stop wasting away, and start living. For them,” he said.

“But how can I, Arthur? Every time I close my eyes I see them. I see the terror in their faces and the pain in their screams. I can feel the blood on my hands. Do you have _any_ idea what that feels like?” Francis asked.

Arthur scoffed. “I’m no stranger to guilt, Francis. I’ve butchered hundreds of cultures and slaughtered countless people. I almost killed my own brother, for Christ’s sake. I have to deal with that guilt every day of my life. Unfortunately, as Nations we don't have much control of our own lives. It’s all about what our people want, or what our governments want. We’re just pawns in their dirty work. I know it hurts, and I know it feels God awful, but that doesn't mean you get to disappear and abandon your duties just so that you can wallow in your own misery,” he said.

Francis sighed shakily and covered his face with his hands. “It’s not fair, Arthur… Why did I have to be given this burden? I’m not strong enough to represent an entire country. I don't have the heart for it. Every day of my life I wish more and more that I were dead, but death will never come for me. It isn't fair,” he said.

“Of course it isn't fair, Francis. Any man with a brain knows that immortality is a curse. We’re all cursed. That’s why we have to live in the present, not the past. We have to keep moving forward. If we live in the past then we are forced to remember every terrible thing we’ve ever done, and every friend that we’ve ever lost, and every heartbreak we’ve ever experienced. Immortal beings don’t have the pleasure of living in the past, because our lives can’t end just because we regret everything we’ve ever done. The only thing we can do is work harder to be better people, and spend every day of our miserable lives trying to repay God for the sins we’ve committed.” 

Francis sighed again and ran his hands through his hair. He didn’t say anything in response to Arthur’s words. After a few minutes of tense silence, Arthur felt that he had to say something else, just to try and get a response from Francis.

“You can’t change the past, Francis. Yes, you did something terrible, but it was out of your control. Those people would have died whether you had facilitated it or not, and you probably would have been executed either way. It’s time to get off of your arse and atone for what you’ve done.”

“But how?” Francis asked.

Arthur averted his gaze. “I can’t tell you that, Francis. That’s something you need to figure out for yourself. But laying around and trying to ignore your problems certainly isn’t going to do anything,” he said.

Francis closed his eyes. “I suppose I have been rather foolish,” he said. “I may never forgive myself for what I’ve done, but you’re right. My people need me. I just have to promise myself I’ll never leave their side again.”

Arthur smiled faintly and reached over to stroke Francis’ hair lightly. “That’s the spirit,” he said.

He stood up from the bed and looked down at Francis. “Why don’t you get some rest, hm? I know you could use it. I’ll find my way to the guest room.”

Francis opened his eyes and looked up Arthur. “You’re going to stay the night…?” he asked, a little surprised.

“Don’t be daft, Francis. Of course I am. There’s no way I’m leaving you alone before you’ve gotten back on your feet,” Arthur said.

Francis smiled faintly, and chuckled softly. “Thank you, my friend,” he said.

Arthur rolled his eyes, trying not to smile back at Francis. “Whatever. You just better have a speedy recovery,” he said.

Arthur stayed in Francis’ home for a few weeks, trying to help Francis get back on his feet. He made sure that Francis ate and that he was clean and that he at least sat outside for a while every day to get some fresh air. He made sure that Francis didn’t disappear again, and he was there to comfort Francis on the nights where his sleep was still plagued with nightmarish memories of what he had done. 

Within a month, Francis had returned to working with the government that was beginning to form in the wake of Robespierre’s execution. Satisfied with the work that he had done, Arthur bid his leave and began the journey back to his own country. He left behind the request for Francis’ servants to keep an eye on Francis and send word to Arthur if anything troubling happened again.

For the most part, Francis was okay. His nights were still restless, but at least he was able to sleep without the help of a starvation-induced coma. He was eating again, and his servants saw to making sure his surroundings weren’t filthy. He went back to performing his duties for the new government and fell into the new style of his people much more easily than he had expected to. 

Still, he kept his interactions with the civilians to a minimum. He didn’t talk to any of them. He didn’t go outside around them if he could help it. He still couldn’t face them. He still couldn’t bear to look any of them in the eye, for fear that he would see hatred or fear in their expressions. 

It got to a point where he was trying so hard to avoid being around his people that once again he began to shut himself off from the world. Concerned for their master’s wellbeing, Francis’ servants did as they had been asked by Arthur and sent a letter to him, telling him what Francis was doing. In a few weeks’ time, they received a letter back that they were supposed to give to Francis.

_Shape up, you pompous French arsehole._

The letter seemed to motivate Francis better than anything else would have, though his servants would never find out what exactly Arthur had said in reply. Upon receiving Arthur’s letter, Francis’ spirits were higher than they had been since Arthur left. From time to time Francis received more encouraging words from Arthur, and his condition became steadily better. 

Eventually Francis began to integrate himself into his society again. He stopped avoiding being outside around his people. He stopped refusing to talk to them. He began trying to help them in whatever way he could, trying desperately to make up for everything that he had done. 

His people seemed to bear no animosity towards him. When he looked at them he didn’t see any of the hatred that he had expected to see, nor any of the fear. Instead he was met with the same admiration, curiosity, and respect that his people had always held towards him. This didn’t do anything to make Francis feel at ease around them. It only made him feel more guilt. 

How could these people spend time with him and interact with him without being afraid of him? How could they act as if he had done nothing wrong to them? How could they still respect him and follow his authority after executing him because he had executed so many of them?

It was too much for Francis. He felt suffocated when he was around his people, to the point that he felt he was about to implode on himself. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t stand to face them any longer. 

He sank to his knees and broke down crying in the middle of a local festive gathering in a small city that he had been visiting to see how the people were holding up under the Directory. He sobbed into his hands, head facing towards the ground, crying out in anguish for the blood he could not seem to wash from his hands. He did not ask for forgiveness; he only apologized. 

His people watched him, silently. They all knew exactly what he was talking about. Even though they acted like it, none of them had forgotten what _Monsieur France_ had done to them. 

It had been nearly two years since Francis’ execution. Two years was a long time for a human, though it hardly seemed like more than the blink of an eye to a Nation. Two years was a lot of time to think, especially when the Personification of your country had disappeared. The people were scared. They had never known a time before _Monsieur France._ They had never known a time when he was not there to help them. They couldn’t fathom moving their country forward without him. They couldn’t fathom the country even _surviving_ without him.

When Francis disappeared, the people were afraid that they had doomed their nation. They were afraid that they had put their Personification to rest permanently. They were terrified at the prospect of what they had done, and the prospect of never being able to see him again. With the Robespierre dead and the Directory in place, surely he would be on their side again if only he were here with them. Surely he would lead them into this new era with hope and love, just as he always had before. The people would have given anything just to have him back again.

When news spread that _Monsieur France_ had returned to them, it felt like a miracle. The people had already decided that they had forgiven Francis, and that they needed his guidance to get their country back on its feet. By the time Francis finally decided to start interacting with his people again, there was no room or time for hatred or fear. All they wanted was to feel some semblance of the warmth and love that he had always bestowed on them before. 

As Francis cried, a young girl approached him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She could have been no more than 13 years old. She tucked some of his hair behind his ear and whispered, “We forgive you.” 

Francis’ breath caught in his throat. He opened his eyes and looked at the girl who was holding him. He saw no fear in her eyes. He saw no anger. No hatred. There was sorrow, yes, but not resentment. But behind that sorrow there was sympathy, and relief, and admiration. There was love and there was kindness. There was forgiveness.

He saw that expression in the visage of every other person who was gathered around him. More children came to his side to hold him. Parents ushered them along, with fond smiles on their faces. Francis was surrounded; engulfed by the arms of the next generation of his people. The people that would keep this nation alive. The people who would try to fix all the damage that the Revolution had caused, and to keep progressing with the changes that it made. The people that Francis had promised himself he would never again leave behind. 

And he continued to cry. He wept into the arms of his children until he had run out of tears to shed. He would never forget what he had done. A day would not pass when he did not wish that he would have fought by their side, or that he could change what he had done. But so long as he knew that his people had forgiven him, he could finally begin his journey to forgiving himself.


End file.
